


Three Nights at The Sea Turtle's Revenge

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birthday, Clubbing, F/F, F/M, Failboats In Love, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Modern Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Modern Thedas, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Anders/Hawke, Past Isabela/Hawke/Zevran, The Dangers of Sketchy Clubs, all's well that ends well, fenhawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11790570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Garrett Hawke spends three, thankfully nonconsecutive nights at Kirkwall’s newest club,The Sea Turtle’s Revenge. The music’s horrible, the patrons annoying, and the bartender’s a special kind of slimy . . . but the bouncer kind of makes up for all that.





	Three Nights at The Sea Turtle's Revenge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: So, confession time? I know precious little about DA: II. Yet, I’ve been moved to try my hand at it, nonetheless, thanks to the amazing [Fenhawke and DA: II fics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/works?fandom_id=229522) by stitchcasual. So, blame them. All their fault.

 

 

**The First Night**

 

 _The Sea Turtle’s Revenge_ is dark-bright with strobing lights and smoke, and deafening, _awful_ house music.

 

To say it’s not the sort of place Hawke prefers to spend any time is all the understatement in this universe _and_ several other adjacent ones. But it’s where his sister had practically _begged_ to spend her special day, so. . . .

 

It’s Bethany’s birthday—and Carver’s, though not only is Bethany’s twin still off doing _whatever_ in the wilds of the Free Marches, but he pointedly celebrates his birthday the day _before_ the actual date, and has since he was nine—and her twenty-first, at that. The only one she’ll ever get, as she so frequently reminds Hawke over the course of the skull-pounding night, between drinking fruity-girly drinks that Hawke will never admit to once having liked, himself, and dancing with Merrill, Isabela, Zevran, or all three. So, since he’ll hopefully only have to do this the one time, Hawke grits his teeth in what no one would think is a grin, and bears it.

 

And bears it.

 

And bears it, some more.

 

 _Anything_ for Bethany and, though it’s a bit more exasperated and grudging a devotion, and so completely disdained by its subject, for Carver, too.

 

Hawke’s been uncomfortable and miserable most of the night, and is certain he looks it. He’s only there to play guard dog for Bethany and Merrill—Iz and Zev can take care of themselves probably better than Hawke can take care even of himself—and glare away the arseholes and opportunists who see their sweetness and enthusiasm as easy marks.

 

It’s a job of work, not surprisingly, since both Bethany and Merrill are pretty and attention-grabbing in ways that are as unusual as they are pure.

 

From his spot holding up the end of the bar on the first-level, scowling and with brawny-big arms crossed over his chest, Hawke risks an updating glance at his surroundings: standard recon and threat-assessment.

 

Nothing but teeny-boppers and scene-kids, skeevs and sleazes, and, here and there, like bits of walnut in a large, sticky-busy fruitcake, a few innocent, radiant souls like Bethany and Merrill.

 

Hawke huffs. He can only hope _those others_ have someone keeping an eye out for them, as well. Kirkwall is, historically, a place where the right and wrong sides of the track are startlingly similar, and tend to run together. To the point that even Hawke, resident of the place for nearly half his life, sometimes can’t tell which is which until later than he’d like.

 

The vibe he gets about _this_ relatively new club is mixed and muddled. Though he supposes if he has to _deliberate_ over whether or not it’s on the up and up, then it likely isn’t. At least not enough for him to let Bethany and Merrill come here unescorted.

 

Hawke sighs and makes a mental note to tell them not to come to this club without either Iz or Zev. Or both, preferably. He knows that his little sister is only accepting _his_ tag-along presence tonight because it’s her birthday—and even _Carver_ doesn’t break the Hawke tradition of birthdays spent together, when he’s in town—it’s tradition, and she’s nothing if not all soft, sentimental heart.

 

Plus, since Hawke is doggedly straight-edge for the past six years, he’s a shoe-in for Designated Driver, even though he hates only one thing more than he hates driving, and that’s driving _Iz’s_ fancy, foreign car.

 

Fighting a smile, he watches Bethany and Merrill flail as if they’re covered in stinging insects and fire. Bracketing them, Iz and Zev are moving sinuously and gracefully, in a way that makes even stoic Hawke flush and eventually tear his nostalgic gaze away. He finds himself glancing toward the exit with such wistful yearning, he’s certain he’s pouting. It’s not a look that fits his craggy, impassive face; thin, hard mouth; and the icy, pale-gray Amell eyes that neither Bethany nor Carver had inherited.

 

His height advantage enables him to see easily over the crowd, to the door. A small group of kids— _way_ too young for this place—is arguing with the bouncer. Said bouncer, a different one than had been working the door when Hawke and his company had arrived forever ago, is at least as impassive as Hawke at his best, his shaggy, white hair glowing like a shooting star in the flashing dark of the club.

 

He’s compact—wiry and probably more than a half-foot shorter than Hawke, who’s a bare shade under six-four—but all muscle and iridescent-white, abstract tattoos. From his strong, stubborn chin, down his throat and to the collar of his unbranded black t-shirt, and presumably lower. His arms bear the tattoos, as well, bright as his moon-touched hair.

 

As Hawke watches, the bouncer crosses his arms in a universal gesture of _no_ , which the gaggle of kids objects to at length. But the bouncer merely holds his ground and his stance, not even deigning to speak, forget letting them in.

 

And well he should, since those brats are probably still in high school.

 

One of them, the tallest one—though not as tall as Hawke, or even Bethany’s six-feet-even—some muscle-bound jock-type, barges his way forward, clearly trying to intimidate the bouncer. He stares down at the smaller man along a long, aristocratic nose and huffs out a snooty-looking rebuttal.

 

Whatever entitled bit of immature nonsense he says is enough to make the bouncer gaze up at him with a faint smile on his keen, sharp profile. His stance doesn’t so much as shift, and he doesn’t even unfold his rangy arms, but something about his demeanor . . . changes.

 

The jock blinks and frowns, and takes a step back. Despite the distance and not even having a full-on view of the bouncer, Hawke feels the danger—effortless and almost lazy, but watchful and ready—radiating off the man, just waiting for a direction and a target.

 

Though a fool, the jock is apparently no idiot. He and his little friends—mostly wide-eyed girls whom he had no doubt meant to impress—make tracks rather quickly. None of them look back.

 

Hawke snorts a brief laugh and at that moment, the bouncer, unfolding his arms and shaking his head in rather jaded bemusement, glances into the club and its crowd. And right at _Hawke_ , giant, bloody lamp-post of a man that he is.

 

He’s . . . angular about the face and uncommonly handsome. Strong-featured and striking. His eyes are blue or green, wide, wide-set, and _very_ bright. Alert and as keen as the rest of him.

 

For moments that feel like ages, they stare at each other, Hawke probably quite obviously dumbstruck and floored, and the bouncer wry and mildly curious.

 

Then, with a twitch of the right side of his mobile mouth, he releases Hawke from his blue-or-green gaze by turning back to the door just as a glamorous couple steps into the doorway with ready IDs.

 

Flushed and discombobulated, Hawke looks away. Returns his almost frantic gaze to the dance floor, searching for his people and finding them in the space of a breath. Merrill has her arms around Iz’s neck, leaning into the taller, buxom woman. She’s letting herself be swayed off-rhythm and slow, and staring up at Iz with wide, light-brown eyes that emote so much yearning and desire, Hawke feels like he’s eavesdropping just witnessing it. And Iz . . . is grinning down at Merrill rather wonderingly, as if seeing her in an entirely new way. Her hands are ostensibly on Merrill’s slim hips, but slowly making their way to the other woman’s arse.

 

 _Huh_ . . . _I suppose it takes all types,_ Hawke thinks, fighting another smile and shaking his head, his gaze shifting to the right of the two women.

 

Zev is dancing with Bethany, also a bit slower than the horrible house music would warrant, smiling at her fondly as she gazes at him with big, hopeful, easy-to-read brown eyes, as guileless as they are dazzled. She’s a few inches taller than Zev, but neither of them seem to notice, let alone mind. They’re clearly lost in a world that’s comprised of only the two of them. In fact, Zev’s usually glib and sardonic expression is now hesitant, and strangely reverent.

 

Hawke sighs and the intimidating, _devastatingly_ gorgeous bouncer is totally forgotten in the face of his sister’s crush on the Antivan actor/performer— _How long has_ this _been going on?_ Hawke wonders with nagging concern that borders on alarm—and the possible reciprocation of the physical attraction, if nothing else.

 

And if Zev is known for anything, it’s for his propensity to _nothing else_ , with his many and varied partners.

 

Hawke’s spent his entire life guarding his younger siblings’ hearts. He may have failed epically with Carver—may have helped drive his hyper-sensitive, easily angered brother away from not just their family, but from their home-city—but he’ll be damned if he lets _anyone_ , even one of his closest friends, break Bethany’s bright and open heart.

 

Not while there’s breath in his body and at least several unopened tins of whup-arse in his fists.

 

Eyes narrowed on the oblivious couple, Hawke grimly resolves to keep an eye on them both and, if necessary, prepare an _epic_ shovel-speech for one Zevran Arainai.

 

Extra emphasis on the _shovel_ -part.

 

#

 

Hawke spends the rest of the night playing stare-down ping-pong: He’s either glaring holes into Zev, who appears not to notice in his preoccupation with an almost literally glowing Bethany, or sending confused and poleaxed glances the handsome bouncer’s way.

 

Sometimes, when he aims his darting glances faster than others, he has the feeling that, if he’d only looked a _little_ faster and sooner, that he’d have found those maybe blue/maybe green eyes on him, as well.

 

It’s a silly notion. One that Hawke roundly takes himself to task for.

 

Eventually, he buys an overpriced and ridiculously small cup of cherry cola—choked with ice cubes—from the smirking and winking bartender, then sips and nurses it until it’s more former-ice than cola.

 

Sometimes, people ask him to dance. At first, this surprises Hawke—he is not, he knows, especially attractive, with regular, but dour features, a tendency to looming that’s less his height and more his _attitude_ , and a resting bitch-face that’s entirely from the Amell side of the family—then it’s just annoying. He supposes the dancers to be drunk or high, or simply too wired on their happy-dance-endorphins to be discriminating.

 

In every case, however, he demurs with polite reserve, then with a cold threat twining through his gritted-out words. In almost all but a few cases—two drunk Kirkwallers and one _completely_ plastered Orlesienne—it doesn’t even go _that_ far.

 

And, admittedly, the Orlesienne had probably draped herself so suddenly on Hawke more to keep upright, than anything else, considering that shortly after that, she’d passed right out on the dance floor and had to be helped out of the club by nearly-as-drunk friends.

 

Hawke had watched their shambling progress to the door and out of it, both exasperated, _and_ worried for the woman. Then he’d found himself meeting the bouncer’s eyes.

 

 _I’ll bet they’re green_ , Hawke had thought, holding that clear, curious gaze. He’d even managed a slight smile, crooked and grimacing, but still, the best Hawke could do on such short notice.

 

And, anyway, the bouncer had nodded in return, his lips curving in the faintest suggestion of a smile or smirk, before looking away. _Almost reluctantly_ , or so Hawke found himself tentatively entertaining as he turned back to the dance floor. Zev and Merrill were doing some strange dance that was part-flail, part-twitch, and all-confusing, while Bethany and Iz, leaning on each other and ostensibly dancing, were laughing uncontrollably at the other pair.

 

Now, not too long after Zev and Bethany have paired off again, and Iz and Merrill have disappeared up to the second-level of the club, Hawke squints at his little sister—she’s starting to look a bit starry-eyed in a way that has little to do with Zev and a lot to do with the fact that’s it’s nearly three in the morning, and she’s probably been up since five a.m.—then turns back to the bar with a sigh. He signals the busy bartender and receives a nod of acknowledgement as the other finishes making what looks like an Antivan Anvil that’s _very_ heavy on the Chambord.

 

When the man finally drifts over to Hawke’s end of the still-crowded bar, he gives Hawke a leisurely once-over that’s not leering, but not subtle, either. His eyes are a bright, acquisitive blue and he’s one of a very few people that isn’t getting neck-strain meeting Hawke’s gaze. Though instead of a dense, brawny frame like Hawke’s, the bartender is lean and streamlined, like a runner or swimmer.

 

He’s attractive in a _northern_ sort of way, Hawke supposes. They’ve barely said two sentences to each other, but the bartender has a middling, bourgeois Tevene accent—not the earthy-guttural-fast burr of the _soporati_ Hawke’s met, not the lazily-crisp round-roll of an _altus_ -by-blood . . . nor the slightly archaic particularity of a member of the now largely ceremonial Magisterium—and impeccably neat light-brown hair. His outfit of faintly shimmery grey button-down and dark slacks isn’t expensive, but it’s flattering and tasteful.

 

He looks effortless and assured, in a way Hawke has never been and—with his indifferent fashion sense and blandly sullen looks—could never be.

 

(Tonight, though, he’d let Zev and Iz ransack his apparently depressing closet of inoffensive tans, greys, and blacks, and put together something that wouldn’t embarrass Bethany or make her roll her pretty eyes in exasperation. She and Carver have inherited Leandra’s instinctively fashionable taste while Hawke is as tone-deaf to such things as Malcolm had been.)

 

“Another cherry cola?” the bartender asks in his anodyne Tevene drawl. His voice is rasping and low, and Hawke’s back goes up for no reason at all. His response is cool and flat.

 

“Large seltzer with lime, light ice,” he corrects, then averts his gaze to the top-shelf of booze, and the mirror behind it, with towering disinterest. The bartender laughs and fills the order so fast that when Hawke senses the movement near his elbow, he’s startled to find the seltzer bubbling away happily below a big wedge of lime.

 

“On the house,” the bartender says with the sort of silky flirtiness that Hawke has never quite known how to respond to, other than with general disapproval. At least when it’s aimed at him . . . not that it often is. “In the hopes, of course, that you’ll think kindly of the _Sea Turtle_ in future. And of your humble purveyor of seltzer and cola. Troy Dominus, by the way,” he adds with a wink and a shallow, sardonic bow. Hawke refrains from rolling his eyes.

 

“Right. Thanks for the quick service, Mr. Dominus,” Hawke says, still flat and chilly, as he places more than enough to cover the seltzer and a decent tip on the bar. After he’s put his wallet away, he takes the seltzer and turns away from the bar. He can feel the bartender’s gaze on his back all the way to the center of the dance floor. But he stops noticing it as he gets caught up in the thankless, tiresome task of getting Bethany to drink some water and call it a night.

 

By the time Hawke’s wrangled Bethany and Zev up to the second-level to look for Merrill and Iz, the lower-level is looking decidedly emptier. By the time they _find_ Merrill and Iz in a small lounge consisting of one curving booth-seat and several metal chairs around a long, low table—kissing and petting in a way that skirts the very edges of common decency—then pry them apart and talk them ‘round to taking their party of two somewhere more private, Hawke is drained, grim, and absolutely _done_.

 

He herds his meandering, giggly-drunk people to the door, through much diminished crowds on the dance floor and past the still-busy bar—Troy Dominus makes note of Hawke’s passing with an unreadable, but assessing look, then dismisses him with a careless wink—and onward, toward the exit.

 

Despite the seltzer, Bethany seems even more wobbly by the time they reach the door and the delicious, moon-haired bouncer. Even Merrill’s sobered up noticeably, but Bethany is both unsteady and disoriented . . . barely able to keep her eyes open as she relies on Hawke to keep her upright and moving.

 

She pauses even as Merrill and Iz drift past the bouncer and out the door, each under one of Zev’s rangy, but sheltering arms. Zev does, however, throw a very concerned glance back at Bethany, then a questioning one at Hawke, who shrugs and waves him on with his free hand. The other hand and arm are around Bethany’s bare, clammy shoulders.

 

Zev’s gaze drifts to Bethany again, still worried, but he nods and lets Merrill and Iz drag him out the door.

 

“I feel funny, Garrett,” Bethany mumbles into Hawke’s shoulder, more slur than words. He frowns down at her pale face and closed eyes. “Like I’m hovering ten feet above my body.”

 

“Probably a combination of too many Fuzzy Mabaris and too much dancing. _And_ not enough water,” Hawke chastises gently, kissing Bethany’s head like he’d used to do when she was younger . . . after Malcolm died.

 

“’Mma sleep f’reeeeever,” she decides listlessly, huffing and snuffling into Hawke’s shoulder. He smiles wryly, recalling the night of his own twenty-first birthday. Rather, not-remembering it. At least not clearly. He remembers very little of anything besides his own disorganized babbling at Iz and Zev, then being on the receiving end of tag-team birthday sex from them both later that night. The first time, but not the last. And easily one of the best nights of his young life.

 

Recollecting that, as always, makes Hawke long for the good old days. Well, maybe not _so_ good—not really, not even with several years between his father’s death and his reaching the age of majority. But it’d been _before_ the crazy mess that’d been his four-year relationship with Anders. Before the three lonely, but stable years since he and Anders had realized all the fire and fierceness that’d kept them in each other’s orbit had burnt to ash and grit and regret. . . .

 

Hawke blinks and returns to the present to see Bethany blinking back at him with loopy, but sympathetic dark eyes.

 

“You miss Anders,” she says sadly, and Hawke clears his throat. Bethany has always had a way of seeing right through him. Lying would be counterproductive and, anyway, he’s not very good at it. Turns blotchy and starts to stammer and laugh nervously when he tries.

 

“Not Anders, per se,” he temporizes.

 

“But, you’re lonely,” she persists, as if only now realizing her big brother is even capable of such a state.

 

Managing a smile, Hawke busses the upturned tip of her nose. “Never. Not when I have _you_ lot to keep me busy and on my toes.”

 

Bethany smiles, bleary, but brilliant, and with the suddenness of the _very_ inebriated, shifts her attention to the bouncer, who’s apparently been watching them unabashedly. His eyes _are_ green, and even more breathtaking up-close.

 

“You’re very handsome and serious and reserved and ironic. Plus, I sense a tragic backstory, perhaps? Ooh, you’re _exactly_ Garrett’s type!” she announces loudly, leaning even more heavily into a horrified and blanching Hawke. “Are you seeing anyone?”

 

“Oh, Maker-on-his-golden-Throne,” Hawke groans, face-palming, but not before he sees the bouncer’s mouth twitch at the corners, his feline-green eyes flashing.

 

“At the moment, I am seeing two people, technically,” the bouncer replies, low, amused, and with the sort of posh, Tevene accent that Hawke’s only heard from the more powerful _altuses_ and from Magisters. The voice, itself, is audible even over the winding-down house music, smooth but rumbling in timber, and throaty and warm in tone. It hits Hawke like a gut-punch _and_ a groin-punch, sending shivers up and down his spine, and raising instant gooseflesh on his arms.

 

When the bouncer’s actual words catch up to Hawke’s flummoxed brain, he looks up in surprise and dismay, thinking, _Of course, a man this gorgeous has_ at least two _lovers. It’d be a waste of a handsome man if he didn’t._

 

But then he notes the small, wry almost-smile on that strong, striking face and gets the joke. Bethany, despite her inebriated distraction, is already giggling.

 

“You’re a card!” she exclaims with weary delight, flapping one uncoordinated hand at the bouncer, who seems warily amused, but _bemused_ , too. Charmed. “ _And_ you have a sense of humor! An expansive one, I hope! _This one_ needs all the sense of humor he can beg, barter, borrow, and steal!”

 

“Bethany,” Hawke grumbles in warning, though it sounds more like pleading, even to him. The bouncer’s keen, green eyes seem to pick up on his discomfort and that small almost-smile deepens, though it doesn’t widen.

 

“Allow me to introduce my big brother, Garrett Malcolm Hawke,” she says proudly, punching Hawke in the ribs hard enough to make him wince. “He’s _very_ tall and very _strong_. And extremely _mean_ , if you’re a jerk. But _you’re_ not a jerk. At least not on-purpose or often—I can tell. So, you two’ll get along famously! Really, Garrett’s a Teddy bear! He’s also sensitive, sweet, and romantic, and he likes operas and parakeets, and boys who bring him flowers!”

 

“Bethany!”

 

But Bethany ignores him. And now, the bouncer’s not bothering to temper his almost-smile, still charmed, but considering, as well.

 

“I see,” he says, his gaze ticking from Bethany to Hawke, then back.

 

“What do _you_ like?” she asks, and once more with the sudden and irrational focus of the very drunk. The bouncer snorts.

 

“I . . . am partial to respectable vintages, edged weapons, and deep silences,” he answers imperturbably, and Bethany hums.

 

“Garrett doesn’t have any fun hobbies, _either_ ,” she says in a put-out voice, but then immediately brightens. Hawke rolls his eyes, beyond numb mortification and inching toward extreme irritation. “What’s your name? Are you from Tevinter?”

 

“I am called Fenris,” the bouncer says stiffly, answering one question, but not the other. Then his gaze, somber and unreadable, once more, drifts up to Hawke’s. “I do hope she will not be too awfully hungover in the morning.”

 

“Well, it’d serve her right if she was,” Hawke mutters, and Bethany punches him in the ribs again. The bouncer’s— _Fenris’s_ —almost-smile makes a comeback.

 

“One important life-lesson got out of the way, I suppose,” Fenris says, shrugging and crossing his illustrated arms over his gracefully tapering sternum. “There is an art to everything. Even drunken revelry.”

 

“Yes. It’ll, er, certainly be a drunken revelry to remember. Assuming she does,” Hawke agrees with his own nervous wryness.

 

“It’s my birthday!” Bethany chimes in with all the excitement and innocent glee of a child. Fenris’s almost-smile widens just a bare tic.

 

“Indeed. Ah . . . happy birthday, Miss Bethany,” he says, bowing to Hawke’s giggling sister in a courtly, old-fashioned, and sincere manner, as different from Troy Dominus’s bow as day from night.

 

“Thank you, Fenris!” Bethany’s beaming again, if the return of Fenris’s surprised-charmed look is any indication. “Garrett’s birthday isn’t too far off, either! He’ll be twenty- _nine_! How old are _you_?”

 

“Hmm. I am . . . old enough to know better, one would think,” Fenris demurs, his gaze dropping as his lips quirk sardonically. Then he looks back up, his face a professional mask once more, his gaze settled firmly on Bethany’s caramel-colored curls, or on Hawke’s shoulder. “I wish you safe travels, Miss Bethany and Garrett. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”

 

Hawke, knowing a polite dismissal when its leveled at him, nods, pashing down his faint-but-there disappointment. “It’s Hawke. And I, er, wish you the same . . . Fenris.” He offers a quick, limp grimace-smile, then drags his protesting sister to the door, even as she babbles out Hawke’s cell number and email address at Fenris. The bouncer’s mouth twitches at the corners again, then he’s turning back toward the bar and, anyway, Hawke is out the door.

 

After a brief pause to take a deep breath of relatively fresh and thankfully dry air, he tugs a sulky, resistant—once more flagging—Bethany toward the municipal parking lot two streets south. He only realizes how overheated and damp his skin is when the light, cool spring breeze makes him shiver and hunch forward. His arm around Bethany is automatically tight and protective. His mind, however, is a someplace else, entirely: not far . . . just a few yards back the way they’d come.

 

 

**The Second Night**

 

Hawke is so _very_ tense, and has been all evening. Since before they left for the _Turtle_ , even.

 

He thinks he’s doing a fantastic job of hiding it, though, until Iz drags Bethany and Merrill off to that mysterious and vaguely intimidating realm known as The Ladies’ Room. The moment they're out of sight, he’s disabused of this quaint notion.

 

Zev leans back in his metal chair, across from Hawke’s metal chair. Between them stretches the curving booth seat and large, low table that passes for a small lounge on the _Turtle’s_ second-level. In the six weeks since Bethany’s birthday, the place has become even more patronized. And even more of a frenetic meet-market.

 

“Well, you had best get on with it before Iz brings the girls back,” Zev says lazily, his light-brown eyes amused and patient on Hawke’s caught-out face.

 

“Er . . . wh-what?” Hawke stammers out, his skin blanching and flushing like the _Turtle’s_ strobe-lights. Zev laughs his warm, fond laugh, slouching back in his chair. As ever, he looks rakish and dashing in his chosen outfit: a silk button-down shirt redder than original sin, and gunmetal-gray vinyl pants that _should_ look ridiculous, but on Zev, of course, do _not_. His corn-silk hair hangs freely to just below his bony-prominent shoulders, framing a face that’s a touch too strong to be pretty, but is still enviably attractive.

 

“You’ve been practicing your Protective Big Brother Shovel-Speech for some weeks, now, yes? And especially this past few hours.” Zev winks and shrugs easily. “It would be a shame for you to lose your chance to deliver it. And I’ll certainly be a captive audience, Garrett.”

 

Scowling thunderously, Hawke’s nonetheless relieved when his skin finally settles on flushing, for a spell, and he leans forward, cold and stony, despite that flush.

 

“Zev, you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had. You and Iz . . . you’ve saved my life. Not just figuratively, either. You’re dear to me in ways I’ll never be able to fully express. But _Bethany_. . . .” he shakes his head, swallowing something that may be his racing heart. “Bethany Hawke is the treasure of my life,” Hawke says simply, all his practiced threats, promises, and warnings flown. His voice has gone from cold and hard, to soft and regretful. “I won’t stand by and let anyone hurt her.”

 

Zev’s smile has been fading during this unplanned—and clearly unexpected—version of Hawke’s shovel-speech. When Hawke falls silent, Zev sits up straight, leaning forward, as well, his for-once-solemn eyes on Hawke’s.

 

“Neither will I,” he says after obviously choosing his words. “Bethany is . . . special. She’s all warm and tender heart. And she walks through this cruel, awful world without any armor _but_ that heart and the Hawke optimism-and-hope that, unfortunately, has turned to rage and lashing out, in _Carver’s_ case. And which _you’ve_ had to bury under so many layers of Amell _cynicism_ , it’s rare, indeed, when I see flashes of it in that unapproachable affect of yours.” Zev smiles once more, but it’s a bit sad. “In fact, I only see it when you’re with Bethany. Like heart calls to like heart, I suppose.”

 

Hawke blinks, shaken and uncomfortable. “Zev—what the bloody hell—”

 

“Bethany is brave and true—in some ways, even more so than you, Garrett. You know this better than anyone, I think,” Zev goes on. Hawke nods once, cautious and reluctant. “I would see her remain so. See her not have to wear the armor that sits so heavily on you. I would see her walk this world as if it’s a field of flowers and butterflies, instead of the shit-heap it _really_ is. I would do _anything_ to see her remain exactly as _she is_ : pure of heart and shining with hope. I would do everything in my power to keep that magnificent heart unmarred and happy.”

 

Now, Zev’s gaze drops to his knees, his smile turned upside-down. “Even if that means . . . keeping my distance. However far you think is best, Garrett.”

 

Hawke’s brows shoot up and his mouth drops open. “And—and if I think you need to back off my little sister before she falls any harder? And _stay_ backed-off?”

 

“Then I will,” Zev promises, meeting Hawke’s eyes again. He looks absolutely miserable and utterly resolved. “I . . . want to protect her. Always. But the way I feel for her . . . I’m afraid I can’t tell what’s the _best_ thing, and what’s just the thing I want above all others. Not when it comes to her. I can’t see _clearly._ Neither can _you_ , but your motives, as her big brother, will always be clearer and purer than mine. I _trust_ that, and will abide by what you think is best.”

 

Digesting this with narrowed eyes and a tight jaw, Hawke chooses his reply carefully. “Even if that means breaking Bethany’s heart in the short-term, to spare it in the long-term?”

 

Zev nods once, stoic and resigned.

 

Hawke holds his gaze for a long minute before shaking his head and groaning. He leans back in his uncomfortable metal chair and runs a hand through his fine, mouse-brown hair.

 

“You bloody fool,” he says, around exasperated laughter.

 

Now, _Zev_ is scowling. Not the petulant, pretty one that Hawke’s kissed off those pouty lips countless times, but a righteous, trembling one that’s all pain and noble sacrifice. Hawke snorts.

 

“I suppose it makes a certain ironic sense. That a man of such iron-clad artifice that even _Iz_ can’t see past it often, is drawn to the one person who has no artifice whatsoever. The person whose heart is so honest, she can see straight to the truth of others. Even Zevran Arainai,” he finishes, smirking a bit. Zev draws himself up defensively, huffing and crossing his arms. Hawke merely quirks a knowing eyebrow and waits him out.

 

Finally, Zev sags and sinks in his seat, his expression gone poleaxed and sad.

 

“I’ve . . . never been in love before, Garrett,” he admits in a hesitant and perplexed voice, torn between the sort of hope and fear Hawke has never heard Zev express before. “I’ve never. . . .”

 

“There’s a first time for everything, my friend,” Hawke assures him kindly, then shakes his head again, swearing under his breath. “I’m not exactly comfortable that your first love is _my little sister_ , but then . . . I suppose that Hawke optimism-and-hope is making me soft. I . . . have faith in the wisdom of Bethany’s heart. And faith in the fidelity and nobility of yours, Zev.” When the other man blinks, all wide-eyed surprise, Hawke summons up the dregs of his previous scowl. “Doesn’t mean I won’t be watching, of course. Like a hawk, as it were. But I’ll also be rooting for you both to make a go of it . . . whatever that means for you.”

 

Zev blinks again then swallows, looking down for a few seconds before catching Hawke’s gaze again.

 

“You’re a remarkable man, Garrett Hawke,” he says somberly. “A wonderful brother and generous friend . . . and a _remarkable_ man. I rather envy the person you eventually give _your_ heart to.”

 

Hawke snorts sarcastically. “Been there, done that. Besides, you _hated_ Anders.”

 

Zev snorts right back, his all-purpose sly smile making a tentative return. “ _Hate_ is such a harsh word! And you have _far_ better taste and intelligence than to have trusted _that_ walking quagmire with your heart. At least, with your _whole_ heart.” He waves a dismissive hand.

 

“Hmph. Well, whole, half, or three-sixteenths, however much I gave him was more than I’ll _ever again_ possess for giving away, I suspect.” Hawke scans the second-level just to avoid Zev’s keen gaze.

 

“Right,” the other man says easily. Hawke huffs once more, then perks up as he spots his sister’s tell-tale caramel curls bobbing a bit above and beyond a small group of animated twinks, who part to let Bethany and company through.

 

“Oh, thank goodness, here come the girls,” he says, waving at the three giggling women as they approach. Zev’s eyes go straight to Bethany’s tall, curvaceous form, his smile turning ever-so-slightly dazed. Bethany’s gaze meets his and her smile turns coy, her eyes heated and promising.

 

Zev actually flushes, his smile trembling on the cusp of a smirk, even as Hawke clears his throat and glares.

 

“Ugh, I _really_ didn’t need to see _any_ of that,” Hawke moans plaintively when Zev turns a flushed, sheepish, hapless—but still somewhat wolfish—expression to him, then shrugs. “I could’ve happily gone to my grave without knowing my baby sister knows how to eye-fuck someone.”

 

“That’s not _all_ she knows,” Zev purrs, rough and hungry—then he does some blanching of his own as he meets Hawke’s horrified eyes again. “Er . . . did I say that out loud?”

 

“Yes. You did.” Hawke’s tone is icy and _Zev’s laugh_ is strained and uncomfortable.

 

“Ah. Well. Heh, I—that is—er . . . _please_ don’t murder me, Garrett?”

 

Rolling his eyes in the face of _Zev’s_ overdone puppy-eyes, Hawke crosses his arms and shifts his long legs out of the way. The three ladies troop past him and into the booth-seat, talking and laughing amongst themselves. “Yes, well . . . we’ll see how the next few months goes.”

 

#

 

They spend most of the evening on the second-level, doing more talking and people-watching than dancing. And Hawke, for that matter, doesn’t dance at all.

 

He’s got drinks-duty for the entire evening, with Zev’s occasional help, when he can tear himself away from Bethany’s flirty eyes and coy smiles. On one such occasion, the two men make their way down to the bar on the first-level, Zev garnering many admiring glances that skitter away when they catch sight of Hawke just behind him, like six and a half feet of jealous boyfriend. Both Hawke and Zev find it funny—the latter to the point that he takes to simpering sweetly up at Hawke and hanging off his arm in a ridiculously possessive manner.

 

By the time they get to the bar, Hawke’s eyes have suffered whiplash from all the rolling.

 

Zev, however, stays in-character. Even dead-eyes the smarmy bartender, Troy Dominus, when the man dares to make unsubtle eyes at Hawke. While handing over their drinks, Dominus even makes pointed, but unnecessary physical contact, brushing lingering fingers down Hawke’s hand. Zev’s face gets downright murderous. The shift is sudden and scarifying, even to Hawke, for a few moments.

 

“Look,” the smaller man tells Dominus flatly as the bartender belatedly hands back his credit card. “Don’t touch.”

 

The bartender gives Zev a long, considering once-over, before holding up his hands in surrender. “Just being friendly. No need for things to get intense,” he says with a slight smirk, or possibly a sneer.

 

Zev’s face is blank, now, but for the chill in those normally warm eyes.

 

“Keep your appendages to yourself, in future, or you _won’t_ like the level of . . . intensity that finds you,” he promises, picking up Bethany’s drink, a rum and cola, while Hawke rolls his eyes and turns away with the other two drinks, a Par Vollen Pulverizer for Iz and a plain seltzer, no ice or lime, for Merrill. He has to stifle a snorting laugh when, as they make their way from the bar, Zev’s hand settles on his arse then clenches with showy ostentatiousness that all but shouts _MINE_.

 

“I don’t think Bethany would approve,” Hawke leans into Zev to murmur. Zev is glaring grimly ahead, but manages a mirthless, absent smile.

 

“Considering that I’m keeping the scumbags and riff-raff away from her big brother . . . I think she’d understand.” Zev squeezes Hawke’s arse a bit harder and longer than pretense would warrant, then nudges Hawke up the metal staircase ahead of him. “That Tevene is a sleaze. Or worse.”

 

“You sound awfully certain, Zev.”

 

“What can I say? We— _recovering_ —sleazes can smell our own,” is Zev’s stiff, mumbling reply. And he doesn’t let go of Hawke’s arse until they’re up the stairs, and well out of sight of the bar and its tender.

 

#

 

The evening ends a bit earlier than planned, not too long past midnight, when Merrill starts feeling sick.

 

The group makes their slow, careful way through the crowds and down the stair, past the bar and to the door. Bethany and Zev are leading the way through the thick press of bodies, but casting worried glances back at Hawke and Iz, who are supporting a dizzy and shivering Merrill.

 

Finally, they reach the relatively clear area near the door. The bouncer, Fenris, is staring expressionlessly out into the night, darting a barely acknowledging glance their way that turns into a double-take as his eyes land on Merrill.

 

“Are you in need of assistance? Your friend seems . . . a bit under the weather,” he notes almost delicately, eyes ticking to Hawke in concern and question. Merrill’s slight, already listless body goes even more so, and Hawke swings her up into his arms, his heart hurting for the feather-light lack of _heft_ to the tiny young woman who’s his sister, too, in all but blood and name. For her part, she holds onto him, skinny arms tight around his neck, her sheet-white face tucked into his throat as she moans and mutters. Iz, looking increasingly worried, leans in to kiss Merrill’s crow-dark hair, then places a gentle hand on her arm.

 

“There _is_ a nasty flu going around Uni, lately,” Bethany says, frowning. Next to her, Zev looks uncertain and doubtful. “And Merr gets ill so easily. . . .”

 

“Poor darling,” Iz murmurs, squeezing her girlfriend’s arm lightly.

 

“We’ll get her home and tucked into bed with a cool compress and some paracetamol. Hopefully that and a good night’s sleep will set her right,” Hawke says to Fenris, kissing the crown of Merrill’s head. Fenris frowns and starts to speak, then closes his mouth again for a few moments.

 

“I fervently hope that turns out to be the case,” he contents himself with saying, his eyes lingering briefly on Merrill before darting to Hawke. Then to Zev, his mouth tightening and eyes narrowing, before finally settling on Bethany. The smile he gives her is kind, and almost reassuring. “I wish you safe travels, Miss Bethany, Hawke, and company. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening, and that morning finds you _all_ refreshed and well.”

 

The smile Bethany gives him in return isn’t quite beaming, not in the face of her best friend being ill, but it’s still sweet and friendly.

 

“Thank you _so much_ , Fenris,” she says, and glances at Hawke. She starts to add something else, but then Merrill whimpers weakly, clutching tighter at Hawke.

 

“Let’s get her home,” Zev says grimly. With a final, brief look at Fenris that wavers when those wide, green eyes meet his, Hawke follows his friends out into the night.

 

#

 

It’s almost two days before Merrill starts feeling better.

 

Despite Bethany and Hawke’s pleading, and Zev and Iz’s harsher insistence, she doesn’t go to hospital. At one point, Iz even breaks down in tears of anger and frustration. Then she storms out of the rambling flat that Hawke, Bethany, and Merrill share, before more than a few of those tears can fall.

 

Merrill watches Iz go from the huge, broken-in paisley couch that dwarfs her, with big, tear-filled eyes. _Bethany’s_ eyes dart from Merrill’s pale, peaky face to the front door of the flat. She starts to go after Iz reluctantly, but Zev halts her with a hand on her arm. Kisses her shoulder and murmurs something to her that makes her frown, but nod.

 

“I’ll be back,” Zev informs them, grabbing his umbrella and hurrying out the door.

 

And he’s true to his word. Early the next morning, just as the rainy sky begins to lighten, he returns with a drained, damp, and red-eyed Iz in tow.

 

Bethany’s tucked-up in and asleep in the chair nearest the couch, and Hawke’s camped out on the floor just beyond the coffee table, attempting to read a _painfully_ purple passage in one of Merrill’s Regency-style novels for the nine hundredth time, when the door opens. Iz is behind Zev, but he makes a gruff sound and turns to push her in ahead of him.

 

Merrill, who’d been fiddling about distractedly on Hawke’s tablet, immediately looks up. Then the tablet’s forgotten on the couch as she hurtles unsteadily to the door and her girlfriend, flinging herself into a sheepish and surprised Iz’s instantly opened arms.

 

“You’re . . . feeling better?” Iz asks in a thick and raw voice as Zev slips past the pair. He passes Hawke with a wink and small smile that Hawke returns, but doesn’t stop until he’s kneeling at a stirring Bethany’s side.

 

“Of course, I’m feeling better! You know my immune system, Iz-love: _always_ late but never _never_.” Merrill’s voice is bright and lilting, instead of the weary whisper it’s been for the past two days.

 

Iz barks a startled laugh and hugs Merrill tight. The younger woman sinks into that embrace with obvious relief.

 

“I’m sorry, alright?” she says shakily. “Next time I feel so peaky, I’ll . . . I’ll go to hospital _straight away_. If you’ll go with me.”

 

“It’s a date, gorgeous,” Iz promises in that raw voice, chin resting atop Merrill’s head and eyes closed so tight that the tears trembling in her dark lashes don’t even fall.

 

“Hmm . . . you look like Hell, darling,” Bethany mumbles groggily into the gentle kiss Zev presses to her lips.

 

“Ah, but _you_ look as radiant and lovely as ever, my sweet,” he replies and Bethany giggles.

 

“You fibber. I _missed_ you,” she yawns, then sighs happily. “I’m glad you’re back.”

 

“Not as glad as I am to _be back_. . . .”

 

Both couples continue to whisper sweet nothings, lost in their own private worlds, and Hawke. . . .

 

Hawke smiles, wistful and a bit sad, then stands. He stretches out lingering kinks and stiffness, and makes his way to the kitchen to start breakfast, _still_ smiling around a cavernous yawn.

 

 

**The Third Night**

 

“You are the _original_ birthday-grump, Garrett Hawke! Why’d you even insist on coming out if all you’re going to do is brood and look mean?”

 

Hawke raises an eyebrow, but otherwise remains blandly neutral to Bethany’s muzzy exasperation. At this point in the evening—in his _life_ —he’s used to her riding him about his asocial tendencies. The incidences have only increased with her consumption of rum-and-colas.

 

“You know, you’re starting to repeat yourself,” he says mildly, just to be a little shit. Bethany’s eyes narrow and Zev, watching the siblings from a relatively safe distance, smirks.

 

“I—you— _damnit_ , Garrett! You don’t make it easy to celebrate the anniversary of your pigheaded arrival on this planet!” She glares blearily at Hawke, who chuckles, leaning back in the booth-seat of the _Sea Turtle’s_ second-level lounge-area. Next to him, Bethany is crossing her arms and looking rather suddenly wounded. Next to _her_ , Zev is sipping his Orzammar Fizz with blithe unconcern. Or, he is until Bethany turns that wounded, pouting gaze on him. “ _You_ tell him, Zevran!”

 

“Oh, er, I would, my fragrant flower,” he says, pouting right back. “But, alas, I never _willingly_ put myself between a rock and a hard place. I’m a coward, at heart, and one who fears the _both_ of you for very different, but equally valid reasons. I’m opting out of this discussion.”

 

Bethany gapes and Hawke guffaws until his sides hurt.

 

“But, if you like,” Zev offers smoothly, apologetically, “I’ll fetch you a nice glass of ice-water to combat all that rum.”

 

Bethany glances at her mostly-finished beverage, and her pout turns into her wibble-face. “Make it seltzer? With a lime and light ice?”

 

“Of _course_ , my flawless gem,” Zev assents with devotion that’s startlingly sincere. Hawke rolls his eyes.

 

“Eurgh, I need some fresh air. The saccharinity is choking the life out of me, all of a sudden,” he claims, standing easily. “You two stay put. I’ll be back shortly, with a seltzer, light ice.”

 

“And a lime, please-and-thank-you!” Bethany reminds him with an overabundance of preciousness. Hawke rolls his eyes again.

 

“ _And_ a lime, you giant baby. _Whose_ birthday _is it_ , anyway?” he grumbles, ignoring Bethany’s offended squawk as he strides off toward the stairs, laughing.

 

#

 

“How fares your friend? I do hope she’s feeling better than she was three weeks ago.”

 

Hawke, standing less than a yard to the left of the club’s entrance, starts, sloshing his half-finished cup of cherry cola, and looks toward the familiar voice. The bouncer, Fenris, in his signature matte-black t-shirt and jeans, is leaning against the left doorpost, casual as khakis and silent as the grave. In the moonlit, but overcast night, he’s all silvery brights and shadowy darks.

 

“Oh,” Hawke says, smiling a bit, and turning red under Fenris’s unreadable regard. But it’s an improvement over the pointedly averted gaze as Hawke had passed him on the way outside. “Merrill’s fine. Or was, after a day or two. She and Iz—er, her girlfriend—wanted to be here tonight for the, ahem, joyous celebration, but Merrill has a migraine and Iz . . . worries.”

 

“Ah.” Fenris’s voice is relaxed and noncommittal. Then his brow furrows a tiny bit. “Joyous celebration?”

 

“Mm. Today’s my birthday. Or yesterday was. I’ve no idea what time it is,” Hawke adds dryly. “It’s like a bloody casino, in there. Or the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

 

Fenris’s dark brows lift gently. “Agreed. And, well . . . happy birthday, I suppose. May each subsequent one be better than the last. Though, I _am_ rather sorry you’re not spending _this one_ somewhere a bit more . . . your speed?”

 

Hawke nods, blushing a bit. “Thanks. The last year of my twenties is upon me, Fenris. _Maker speed you on your way, noble decade!_ ” He raises his sweating cup of cola to toast the indifferent night, then snorts. “But you’re right. _The Turtle_ really _isn’t_ my speed, no. It’s so fast, it’s interminably _slow_ , if that makes any sense.”

 

“It does, unfortunately. _The Sea Turtle’s Revenge_ . . . where every second is an hour and every hour is a bloody _eternity_ ,” Fenris intones in a low, vaguely huckstering voice, and with more than a little rue. Hawke chuckles.

 

“Am I hearing a distinct lack of job satisfaction?”

 

Fenris grunts, and it, too, is noncommittal. His green eyes leave Hawke’s face to stare piercingly into the warm night. “I am . . . content enough with my current employment. For the time being.”

 

“That’s something, at least.” Hawke glances away from Fenris’s profile, then right back, because he literally can’t help himself. It’s truly confounding that any one person can be so enigmatically handsome and effortlessly magnetic.

 

Hawke stares and stares until Fenris’s amused gaze drifts back to him.

 

“I was not aware there was quite so much of me to warrant someone staring for minutes on end.”

 

Hawke blushes and grins, looking down. “Is that so? Then consider this me putting you on notice. You are . . . mesmerizing, Fenris.”

 

Fenris’s reply to that is silence, surprised and uncertain. When Hawke looks up, the other man is staring down at the cracked sidewalk, his face a bit pink even in the overcast moonlight that’s not nearly as pure and bright as his hair.

 

“I . . . do tend to stand out in mixed company,” Fenris says with whatever’s drier than irony, tipping his head back a little and gesturing at his white-lined throat and arms.

 

Hawke blinks, noticing the tattoos again for the first time since he’d met Fenris . . . on the night of Bethany’s birthday, nearly three months past.

 

“Yes, you certainly do. Though I must admit, the tattoos are . . . rather pale and forgettable when compared to the rest of you. They’re an attempt to gild a lily that needs no such embellishment.”

 

The single green eye Hawke can see widens slightly, but Fenris doesn’t look up.

 

“You have a way with words, Hawke.” He sounds less than happy about that.

 

“Not really. But sometimes, even _I’m_ inspired to wax poetical.” Hawke shrugs, graceless and hapless.

 

“I see. And does your . . . boyfriend also inspire such sweet poetry from you? Or is your eloquence saved for strangers you meet at clubs?”

 

Fenris sounds cool and uninterested, but the eyes that tick to Hawke’s are narrowed.

 

“My . . . boyfriend,” Hawke repeats, mystified. Fenris sniffs and returns that narrowed stare to the night. If the night had any sense, it would certainly take a few steps back in response.

 

“Yes . . . the Antivan.” It’s clear that Fenris wants to tack a few more adjectives onto that bare description, but stops himself.

 

Hawke’s brows lift and he snorts. “That would be Zevran, one of my closest friends. And while he and I have, in the past, spent some . . . quality time together, he’s _Bethany’s_ boyfriend, not mine. _Never_ mine.”

 

Fenris’s mouth purses, but he looks up at Hawke warily.

 

“But I saw . . . the last time you were here. . . .” Fenris flushes quite a bit deeper. “Troy was being his usual unrepentantly disgusting self and the Antivan . . . _Zevran_ , made his claim on you _very_ clear.”

 

Hawke frowns, then brightens as he remembers Zev’s ridiculous display, and laughs. “That was Zev’s unsubtle attempt at keeping away unsavory parties. He’s . . . a bit overprotective of Bethany and I. He didn’t like your bartender’s . . . boldness.”

 

Fenris huffs, but he seems somewhat mollified. Even smiles a bit. “Few do. And he’s not _my_ bartender. Nor is he the _Turtle’s_ bartender, anymore. Good riddance.”

 

“Oh?” Hawke has, indeed, noticed the new bartender slinging drinks: a burly, taciturn Ferelden with a beard worthy of Orzammar nobility and a scowl that Hawke had envied. “I, er . . . take it you and he weren’t on friendly terms?”

 

“No, we were not.” Fenris’s voice goes icy, then considerably warmer with controlled anger. “And glad I am that I was not _so_ desperate for even incidental companionship, as to accept overtures from the likes of him. Have you not heard?” he asks after a pause during which Hawke is mildly commiserating, but otherwise unaffected. “Less than two weeks ago, it was discovered that Troy Dominus has been . . . spiking patrons' beverages with illicit narcotics designed to . . . shatter inhibitions.”

 

Hawke’s eyes widen, and not just at the cold anger and disgust in Fenris’s voice.

 

“He—” finishing the sentence is impossible as Hawke thinks back to that first night at the _Turtle_ , when Bethany had gone from tipsy to alarmingly unsteady not long after the seltzer should’ve cleared her head.

 

And then the second night, six weeks later, when Merrill had gotten so ill—not long after having _a cup of seltzer_ —Iz’d nearly gone insane with worry and fear for two days straight. . . .

 

“A patron grew violently ill not long after imbibing a _non_ -alcoholic beverage Troy had prepared. The patron was, it turned out, highly allergic to the intoxicant Troy had slipped him. He started having seizures around last-call, even as Troy was trying to talk him into a . . . tryst in one of the stock-rooms. The patron nearly died before the ambulance arrived.” Fenris’s glare, absent though it is, could curdle fresh cream. But Hawke barely notices as his mind reels from a million different scenarios, none of which have happy endings. “It took only a few hours for the constabulary to put two and two together, then get a warrant to search the _Turtle_ —where they found nothing, to our employer’s immense relief—and Troy’s flat. Which bore more than a little evidence of his . . . pharmaceutical misdeeds. Troy, unfortunately, had disappeared just before the ambulance arrived. He has not been seen since and the constabulary was unable to track him once he crossed into the wild country near the southern borders of the Free Marches.”

 

“Maker preserve.” Closing his eyes, Hawke lets out a shuddering breath. “My friend, Merrill . . . and my _sister_ —the first two times we came here, they grew suddenly disoriented and ill not long after _I_ brought them drinks that _Troy made_. . . .”

 

“If those drinks were spiked, Hawke, it is unlikely either young woman was his target. Troy’s tastes run to . . . tall, strapping young _men_ ,” Fenris says, with uneasy compassion, but the look he gives Hawke is quite pointed.

 

His blood running cold and his teeth gritted tight, Hawke has to force himself to breathe not through his anger—though that’s certainly a factor and feeling among _many_ others—but through a wall of half-numb horror. “If—if Bethany or Merrill had gotten truly ill, or . . . _worse_ because that pervert was after _me_ —”

 

“It would have been no one’s fault, but Troy’s. You would be as blameless as your sister and your friend,” Fenris says firmly. Hawke snorts and shudders, looking up at the cloudy darkness overhead. He blinks away molten tears at the thought of coming closer than he’d ever thought he’d come again to losing one of his siblings.

 

He wishes he were possessed of Fenris’s certainty that such a terrible outcome would not have been his fault. But he _knows_ that, had anything happened to either girl and had he known of his own culpability in such an evil occurrence, the only person _more_ at fault than Troy Dominus would be Garrett Hawke.

 

“In any event,” Fenris is saying serenely, yet with an air of finality, as of closing a sore, but resolved topic, “they are both, thankfully, safe, now. As are _you_ , Hawke. And that . . . pleases me greatly.”

 

Swallowing several times around a painful lump in his throat, Hawke finally lowers his gaze to his shoes, then looks back up at Fenris’s face. “No worries on my account. It would’ve taken Andraste, herself, to get me into a stock-room with that creep. No matter _how_ compromised my system, he’d not have found me such easy prey.”

 

“A fair point.” Fenris’s almost smile twitches his lips and he steps over the fact that, with enough of the right illicit drug, Hawke’s resistance would be a moot point. And he would surely awaken the morning _after_ such a drugged night with no memory of what had happened to him. If he awoke at all. “It is heartening that your sense of self is such that, even at your worst, the putrid charms of an ethically-deficient Tevene would neither dazzle, nor impress.”

 

Hawke laughs a little. It sounds tired and shaken— _Hawke_ is tired and shaken, suddenly, but for the moment, has no intentions of dealing with the terrible _what-ifs_ trying to swamp his mind and heart—but still a touch amused. “It’s the, er, ethical deficiency that leaves me cold, Fenris, not necessarily the Tevene-bit. I have nothing against persons from Tevinter.”

 

Another twitch of Fenris’s distracting, sensual mouth. “Then you are a far more open-hearted man than I, Hawke. For I tend to find Tevenes . . . not to my general taste.”

 

“Indeed?”

 

Fenris shrugs: a minute, elegant shift of proud, but tense shoulders.

 

The great temptation for Hawke is to ask Fenris what his taste actually _is_ , even if only to further distance himself from the previous subject under discussion. But Hawke resists the urge. He’s predictable enough without being quite _that_ obvious.

 

“ _You’re_ a Tevene,” he quietly notes, instead, and Fenris sniffs again, his affect shifting from almost-warm, to decidedly cool and reserved.

 

“Yes, I am. After a fashion. So, I know whereof I speak.”

 

Hawke shrinks a bit, gulping more of his cola. It’s watery-sweet, with a faintly chemical under-taste. He wonders for a moment if the new bartender gave him diet. He bloody _hates_ artificial sweeteners—is rarely moved to consume sweets, anyway, but when he does, he prefers plain, old sugar—yet in light of what _could’ve_ been in his drink, decides not to let it discommode him.

 

Sooner, rather than later, the cola’s done. Leaving Hawke to crunch nervously on ice cubes, trying not to brood, and wishing he had some sort of witty ice-breaker, or even a knock-knock joke to leaven the weighty silence.

 

“I must apologize, Hawke,” Fenris finally says, quiet and stiff, at the same time as Hawke says: “I’m sorry, Fenris.”

 

They blink over at each other with wide eyes, then Fenris frowns and clears his throat. His eyes drift to the pavement again. “It is I who should be apologizing to _you_. I can be . . . moody, or so I am told. Especially about subjects that are . . . touchy for me. And there are many,” he admits apologetically, his shoulders sagging a bit. “I . . . have grown unused to the sort of courteous curiosity that is part and parcel of human interaction. That is no _excuse_ for my . . . terseness. But it is an explanation, at least. You have done nothing wrong, nor said anything untoward. I wish you to know that.”

 

“But I feel as if I _have_ offended you, Fenris. Or . . . put you off me, entirely,” Hawke says softly, his smile limp and aimed across the street at an untenanted office building, old and crumbling and forgotten. “Though, it’s hardly surprising to me that while attempting to court and keep the interest of someone like you, I’ve gone and put my foot in it so calamitously, that I’m unlikely to recover.”

 

There’s another silence between them, long and impossible for Hawke to interpret. Then Fenris sighs. “Someone like me.”

 

It’s not quite a question, but Hawke answers, anyway. “Someone who’s not only the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but who strikes me as layered yet straight-forward, troubled but kind, self-contained . . . but lonely. Someone whose smile I’ve never seen and whose laugh I’ve never heard, but would nonetheless give _anything_ to be responsible for cultivating, for the foreseeable future. Someone who . . . perhaps has even _fewer_ than no reasons to take a chance that the great, stammering oaf who’s been making calf-eyes at him since the moment he laid eyes on him, is worth getting to know. But who might nonetheless be willing to take a leap of faith, anyway. Hopefully because the butterflies and tingles and blushing said oaf is experiencing are . . . _not_ unreciprocated?”

 

Fenris gazes intently at the sidewalk for so long, Hawke runs out of hope. And out of ice cubes to crunch.

 

Several minutes after _that_ , that bright, green gaze lands on him, so keen, he can _feel_ it. He looks back over at Fenris with wary despondence.

 

“You . . . are a man unlike any I’ve ever met, Hawke,” he says solemnly, as if confessing some great secret.

 

Hawke shakes his head, his face set in a grimace even he wouldn’t call a smile. “Right. Well, that can be taken a number of ways, not all of them positive. I’m not fishing for compliments here, Fenris, but . . . it’s been a rather _long_ night, with more than one sudden, depressing turn. So, if you’re at all interested in me, _please_ say so plainly. Similarly, if you’re trying to give me the brush-off . . . don’t dance about my tender feelings. Just _say so_ , and I’ll leave you be.”

 

Fenris’s mouth tics at the right corner and he takes a deep breath as he turns away. Paces a few steps away from Hawke, then turns right back, his expression part-defensive and part-naked—unexpected—vulnerability.

 

“Whenever you leave this den of idiocy and excess, I . . . fear that it will be the last time I ever see you—indeed, after word got around about Troy’s crimes, I was certain I would _never_ see you again. And I kicked myself for being a coward and a fool, as has ever been my great failing.” Fenris laughs a little, but it’s the saddest laugh Hawke’s ever heard. “You . . . are decent and admirable, generous and kind, compelling and . . . _desirable_. In every way. I imagine you are quite sought-after by people of worth, and so, I cannot understand why you’ve returned to a place such as _this_.”

 

Taking a slow, steadying breath, Hawke holds Fenris’s gaze. “ _Can’t_ you? Even _now_?”

 

The defensiveness fades from Fenris’s face, leaving only that raw vulnerability to shine from his being like the fierce, celestial radiance of a nearby star.

 

“Even now, Hawke, _I cannot_ ,” he states with stilted pride and bleak futility, in a voice that’s tight and shaking with soul-deep frustration. “I _wish_ to understand, to _trust_ that . . . someone as good and noble—as _strong of character_ —as you, would find something worthwhile in such a . . . dilapidated ruin of entrenched bitterness and dead hopes.”

 

It’s obvious Fenris isn’t talking about the club, anymore, and for a few lengthy moments, Hawke is utterly nonplussed and lost. He has no clue how to proceed.

 

But then, as if suddenly granted foresight, he sees his future spread before him like a tapestry, depicting what may be an unending series of advances and retreats, progress and regression, and single or double steps back for every few forward ones taken.

 

His _heart_ also sees—with a clarity that leaves him nearly gasping, and wondering how Bethany _stands_ such constant, penetrating insight into the people around her—that for all the hardships that lay waiting in their potentially shared road, there is also the promise of love and joy. Not easy and constant, respectively, but all the more treasured for having been won at such great pains.

 

He sees this future, this life with Fenris, laid out like a galaxy of stars and, with a doubtless and mellow contentment, commits to _every single moment_ of it: difficult and easy, hard and soft, bitter and sweet.

 

He has never wanted _anything_ so much, nor so purely.

 

Girding himself, Hawke closes three quarters of the distance between himself and Fenris, because he both understands and accepts that for now, at least, this is how it will have to be. _He’ll_ have to meet the other man most of the way, and have to be patient and diligent—courageous and undaunted—to be worthy of the walled-off garden that is Fenris’s heart.

 

And he _will_. He’ll take it one step—or a few yards—at a time. And never mind the occasional step back.

 

Fenris’s eyes are wide with disbelief and wariness, like a cornered animal. So, when Hawke holds out his hand, he does so slowly. That green gaze locks on the offered hand with confused yearning.

 

“When your shift is over, if you’re not too tired, I’d . . . like to take you for a coffee. Or tea, if you prefer.” Hawke smiles, even though Fenris is still staring at his hand like it’s a viper. Or a life-preserver. “I, er, have to drop my sister and Zev off, first, but . . . there’s an interesting-looking greasy spoon, just a few streets north of here—”

 

“I know it. They have excellent desserts,” Fenris says, nodding briskly as he takes a small step forward. Then another. Then another. And, finally, he’s standing just inside Hawke’s space. His hand, large and work-roughened, hovers over Hawke’s. Those clear, green eyes are anxious and shining as they examine Hawke’s face. “I do not care for coffee or tea, however . . . I _have_ been known to indulge in hot cocoa, on occasion. Also, there’s at least one enormous slice of cherry cheesecake in the dessert display with your name on it. It’s _not_ a proper birthday without cake, after all,” he gruffly declares, his callused fingertips brushing Hawke’s palm.

 

Grinning, without even a hint of grimace, Hawke raises his hand just enough so that their palms touch. With another swallow and a look of intent concentration, Fenris closes his hand over Hawke’s. His grasp is firm, but not intimidating; cool, but not cold . . . shaking, but determined. And his eyes still burn bravely, searchingly, up into Hawke’s.

 

Whatever he sees in that Amell-gray gaze, is enough to make much of his guardedness relax, and some of the tension leave his angular shoulders.

 

“My treat, of course,” Fenris adds, his own tiny, almost-smile beginning even as Hawke’s huge, _ridiculous_ one turns into a Bethany-esque beam.

 

“Of course,” Hawke agrees just a tad breathlessly, then laughs. Blushes so fast and deep he gets light-headed, but keeps laughing rather giddily. “Oh, la! What a _lucky_ birthday-boy am I!”

 

After a surprised snort and momentary grin, Fenris’s underused chuckle joins Hawke’s laughter: a low, reluctant counterpoint that grows stronger and easier the longer it goes on. Their combined merriment travels far into the overcast night, carried on the back of an early summer zephyr, and touching every good heart it meets along the way.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the amazing, inspiring Fenhawke, stitchcasual. If any of this is good, it’s down to your example. And the sucky bits are all my own stumbles. I hearts you very much, even though you smell like feet and have horrible taste in desserts :-D 
> 
> I also den on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com), yo!


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